Stain
She is not broken in the ordinary sense
In piles of dirty dishes days
But broken as a light no longer framed
Scattered dying in forest rows
This is not garbage you understand
But a catalogue of what was not
Consummated
We left those days
Drifting close in tangled drops
Her stench
Forever fragranced in the leaves
Of books and storms and confidence men
Yellowed in the corners
Marshland hides a lot of sin
Curling round its burdock stains
She sat with the ducks
And they -
Walked on
Nothing was the same again
Ever
Catherine MacAdam
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